Silence slowly settles inside the chamber, as if it is not merely the absence of sound, but a being of its own. The black void on the mosaic no longer moves, yet its presence is felt with every breath.
The blue light of the lamp trembles as it clings to the walls. Each symbol's shadow stretches long, pulling from floor to wall, wall to ceiling, ceiling to unseen heights. This chamber is no longer architecture; it is a test, a judgment, a selection.
Outside, at that very moment, the sky over Tenmorih grows deeper. The stars drift slowly away, as if they do not wish to look directly at this place. The moon slips behind the clouds, its light breaking apart, falling incomplete over the city. In the distance, the towers of the fortress stand in darkness, not like guards, but like monuments—ones that know how history is born: in silence, in a wrong step, in a single moment of decision.
Inside the museum, five shadows stand still. The warmth of their bodies still lingers in the air, but the chamber does not respond to it. Stone never cares for human warmth. It only waits. It knows that time does not work for humans; humans are the ones who erode within time.
At the edge of the black void, light comes to a halt. There lies the end of reality, and beyond it, only nonexistence. This is not a trap; it is a boundary. Who will move forward, who will stop—this question the chamber itself will not answer. It will only accept the outcome.
In the outer sky, a gentle wind begins to blow. Fog wanders through the city's alleys, slowly erasing every trace. The footsteps of the guards grow faint, then fade away. Tenmorih sinks once more into its deep sleep, unaware that beneath it, within the chest of stone, some ancient fate has begun to move again.
The night moves on. And the Balan Museum—this stone, this darkness, this void—holds everything within itself. It knows that the path that has begun here leads not only forward, but inward as well.
******
Mursalin pulls an ancient book from his waist. This is not an ordinary book; each page is heavy with a thousand years of knowledge. The edges of the book are brittle like dry leather, as if a strong touch could turn them to dust. But the strangest thing is the writing itself, which seems alive. The ink moves in invisible streams, as if the letters are swimming across the page. Sometimes it feels like the words are changing their meaning on their own, revealing new truths.
Mursalin turns the pages with extreme care. His eyes read the writing quickly, searching for the sentence that might save them. Deep lines of thought crease his forehead, and his face shows intense focus.
"Darā bom na sā di rīvāb,"
Mursalin whispers. His voice carries a mysterious quality, as if he is not just speaking, but connecting with ancient knowledge. A sentence forgotten for centuries but unable to be erased.
Then Mursalin speaks more sentences with his full power. He reads aloud. Not in a common language that others know, but in an old tongue. Each word comes from his mouth like a slow roar. His chest trembles with every word, and his face glows with an otherworldly light.
The effect of the sentence is immediately visible.
One by one, the letters awaken. The engraved symbols on the floor begin to glow. Some shine in golden light, some in silver, some in blue. A line of light forms in the darkness. The letters that glow are safe. A path that will help them cross this trap.
A brief relief appears on Mursalin's face, but his eyes remain alert. His voice carries a firm command that forces everyone to obey.
"Come behind me," Mursalin says. "Do not delay."
Five pairs of feet land lightly on the floor, fast, but without any doubt. Each step is calculated, each breath controlled. Their movement is now ghostlike.
Vesha, whose face is now deeply focused, holds his breath. His shadow sticks to him like a second skin. Every muscle is tense, every nerve alert.
Halem, whose body usually radiates strength and confidence, now looks around anxiously. His face shows caution, his eyes sharp with warning. His breathing is controlled but fast.
Narvi, whose youthful face usually carries innocence, now walks behind everyone. His instinct does not allow him to turn his back to the darkness. His eyes constantly look back, as if he senses something following them.
They move forward. Carefully.
Mursalin, leading them through this trap, suddenly stops. His eyes fix on a special part of the floor. Here is some strange writing, different, a complex pattern that stands apart from the rest. His shoulders loosen slightly, and a faint light of hope appears on his handsome face.
Mursalin speaks softly, raising his hand in a reassuring gesture toward his friends.
"We are almost there."
It is a rare moment. A breath of relief inside the trap. But even this moment of hope is short-lived.
Mursalin takes the final step. His foot lands on safety, and a gentle sigh of relief escapes his lips. But behind him, a terrible scene begins to unfold.
The path burns itself away. The places that had just been safe now turn into black marks. There is no way back. Only forward, into unknown danger.
Suddenly, the darkness ahead lights up.
Another corridor stretches forward, as if it is a memory that refuses to be erased.
The stone arches stand one after another, each engraved with ancient symbols, softened by centuries of footsteps. The floor beneath their feet is made of uneven stone pieces, smoothed in the middle by the friction of time, while the edges still carry the sharpness of neglect. Here, every step feels measured, as if the chamber itself is counting.
Torches burn along the walls, their flames restless and fierce. Smoke rises slowly, staining the ceiling with black marks, and the light trembles over the pillars as if the stones are breathing. Shadows move like waves, drifting and returning, dancing silently between the pillars, merging when you stare.
Inside the walls, shelves are arranged in niches, holding forgotten items. Clay pots, cracked book covers, offerings whose meaning has long been lost. From a half-melted candle, wax drips slowly, piling up midway, as if time itself pauses for a moment in this place.
The air is warm and heavy, filled with the scent of ink and ancient dust. Every sound travels far here. The faint crackle of the fire, the tiny echo of movement, and somewhere deep within the structure, the soft drip of water. The silence here is never empty; it is layered, patient, and watchful.
At the very end of the corridor, a pale blue-white door glows. It does not tremble like fire; it is steady, firm, almost seeming aware. The arches narrow toward it, guiding the eyes forward, pulling the body along, whether it wants to go or not.
The blue-white door at the far end is not just an entrance, but a boundary. Its light is steady, precise, as if it is not fire or magic, but the expression of some deep consciousness. This light is as neutral as time itself. It neither calls nor pushes anyone away. It only indicates: from here, the idea of returning is no longer valid.
And this corridor is not just a path. It is a test of determination, a place to shed doubt. What awaits inside that distant door has been waiting for a long time. And it knows that whoever reaches there has already left something behind.
The centuries trapped in the stone begin to unfold slowly at this moment. The corridor, the torches, the shadows—everything seems to finish its work and become still. Those who reach here are no longer travelers; they are now part of memory, seeds of the future. The deep structure of the museum accepts their footsteps like the sea accepts a stone, leaving a mark without asking questions.
In Tenmorih's sky, the moon breaks through the layer of clouds once more, not fully, not completely, only as much as needed to be a witness. The sky knows that no battle is taking place below, no king is dying. But something is happening that will be known as history many years later.
The fog resting on the city's rooftops slowly drifts away. The air is cold and clear, yet heavy. As if the night itself understands that it will carry some burdens and leave some to the stone's hands. The guards walk their designated paths; the sound of bells can be heard in the distance, routine-like, meaningless yet necessary. No one knows who, at this same moment, is rewriting themselves.
The museum breathes again. Its walls, its pillars, its darkness—everything remains as before, but slightly heavier. It knows that this night will end. Dawn will come. The sun will rise. People will return to their daily lives. But within this depth, a line has been drawn. Invisible, yet permanent.
And above the sky, the stars have seen everything, will see everything. But they never speak. Because they know some stories are not told, only carried.